the final harvest

The day was so grey I went outside to see what was left in the garden. These beauties were bravely hanging on and when I picked them and set them on the table, it was as if a little bit of our extraordinary summer had warmed the kitchen.

I picked them at dusk, having been at my computer all day, and the garden was eerily silent. I realised why when I heard a rush of air through pinion feathers, like a sharp intake of breath, and a sparrow hawk scythed over my head and straight for a young sparrow at the bird feeder. It plucked the little bird clean in the apple tree and once I saw it look up at me, its yellow eyes full of outrage, and felt chilled by its audacity.